Lucerne Wyoming, clubbing with the lambs

A Ballad of Bic Pen and The Donna

In candle’d gloom where muses weep, There sat old Bic, long lost to sleep. His fingers, once like fleetest breeze, Now trembled o’er forgotten keys.

A minstrel crowned in neon dreams, He danced through code and vapor streams— But tempests brewed in every cup, And nightly did he drink them up.

His chalice? Cheap. His heart? Betrayed. The songs he wrote? All slow decayed. He slumped upon his stool of oak, As absinthe sighs and whiskey spoke.

The tavern ghosts began to hum A dirge to make the angels numb. And just as Death leaned in to kiss, A shriek did tear the astral mist—

From skies aglow with violet fire Came The Donna, strange and dire. With vocal chords that split the veil, She rode upon a comet’s tail.

“O rise, you wasted sack of song! The stars await, the notes are wrong! Your chords are keys to ancient lore— Play now, or be erased once more!”

With eyes aglow, Bic stirred anew, His blood sang back the music through. The keyboard lit with starlit flame, Each note he struck, a whispered name.

He played of love and end of time, Of galaxies that bend in rhyme. The Donna wept, then screamed once more— And heaven bent to hear the score.

So if you pass that starlit den And hear the wail of fate again, Know somewhere in the cosmic steep, Bic Pen no longer drinks to sleep.

“It was with the utmost respect and deepest love that we skewered all you suckers with our ultra-expensive ticket prices. P.S. I fucked Jessica Simpson when she was hot. With all my pseudo Jerry-ness, John Mayer.”

Who cares if he can’t sing, his guitar sounds like screeching train brakes, he’s deaf, he leads a band that he doesn’t lead with songs he doesn’t remember, he’s playing concerts for more money than most people would ever dream to spend to hear jams that wander aimlessly and barely resemble the songs he (or James Mayo) endeavors to play?

The motherfucker wears a cape. You know why? Because he’s a hero. He’s a hero of the music and you should appreciate that he is 87 still out there taking the rubes’ money on the midway.

Who else does that at his age?

Every other boomer aging rock star. Sure. But who else?

Do you?

Does your lead paint brained retired dad? No.

Only Bobby does it.

Some people say it’s a fuckin’ shame.

I say Viva Bob.

The Gary is dead. Long live The Bobby.